


drifting

by imaginarypasta



Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Dissection, Mild Gore, Non-Linear Narrative, One Shot, Unreliable Narrator, Vivisection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 21:21:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21555694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginarypasta/pseuds/imaginarypasta
Summary: Drifting between various points in Danny's life. Circular narrative in the loosest sense of the term.
Kudos: 35





	drifting

He was always on the table, its icy metal seeping through the plastic-rubber blend gripping tight onto his skin. He was used to the cold, it was constantly stemming from the ghostly core inside him and pressing itself into his skin, but _this_ cold was an invader, hostile and dangerous. The eyes peering at him through transparent red goggles were no warmer, promising him a world of pain.

The shields over her violet irises were the same color as the blood staining his sheets, mixing with neon green, both colors drying into desaturated versions of themselves. His bed had become piled with blankets after he realized the stains wouldn’t come out of the carefully printed planetary designs, even if he wasn’t constantly adding to them. Despite their Christmas colors coating the fabric, he could still see the little rocket ships making their way towards the stars.

They stretched for ages above him, silver-white on dark blue, their numbers dwindling with light pollution, mostly from the shining lights covering his house. He sat on the top of the ops center, alone but surrounded by beautiful burning balls of gas, scarred and bruised skin bundled in a bright red jacket he’d had for years, and reclined onto the metal skeleton of the building, the sudden chill on his neck sending a shiver down his spine.

The first incision was always the worst in his memories, sharp scalpel cutting plump skin into shreds — _too solid, he was too solid_. Citrus cleaner, the one he’d used to clean the lab earlier this afternoon, overwhelmed his senses, making him taste bright green. His teeth were clenched tight, lips pursed until they turned white, trying not to let the hellish scream escape the boundary of his mouth. _Because it’ll hurt her_.

And when it came, it was ear-piercing, he could feel the world around him shatter, mirroring the bones in his body. No, no, this shouldn’t be happening, he wasn’t ready to die. Electricity surged through his veins, white hot and branching through parts of his body he didn’t even know were there. He felt everything, and then nothing. His arms and legs hit the floor, and he knew the hit would leave a bruise.

He was pulled up by the collar of his shirt, and the quarterbacks’ hot breath blew stale on his face. His eyes squeezed shut at the sudden blast air. His words were full of venom and anger, but fell upon ears ringing too loud for his head to hold. His innards jiggled against their marrow cages as the larger being shook him, sending a queasy feeling to his gut, which was instantly met with a sharp punch.

And stinging pain lurched into his torso, spreading throughout his body as the cuts became deeper and longer. His lips bled from where sharp teeth had pierced into them, but the small dents paled in comparison to those that now reached through his chest.

A blast of ice hit just above his heart, dangerously close to freezing the only thing that kept him human. Her eyes were dark opposite him, hovering in the air hundreds of feet above the Nasty Burger. His hand reached up to wipe the green off his hazmat suit, but failed to reach it as she sent a second beam of light at him. He struggled to maintain his upright spot in the air, stupidly insisting on trying to talk this out with her. Ripples of fear made him quake as he pressed his hand to his chest. _Still beating_ , he told himself, _still alive._

But he didn’t know how, the shock should’ve killed him; he was lucky. No, he was _changed_. The face in the mirror wasn’t his own, skin sunken in on itself, eyes glimmering with an unknown fervor, skin discolored except for the lime pulsing in his veins. It was a distortion of who he was, hollow and undignified. The suit was still so distinctly an echo of his parents’ world, and the thought almost made him laugh out loud.

The cloth meant nothing to her now, though she’d spent years alongside her husband to forge the perfect material for protecting against ectoplasm. She hadn’t even noticed the logo printed on the tag as she’d cut through it, suit now hanging in shreds along the table. The bareness made him self-conscious, the feeling tethering him to reality, to humanity, as she took the same destructive approach to his body now. She plunged a gloved hand into his chest, and he felt her shiver at the contact with his core. A similar discomfort ran through him, and he knew she wasn’t expecting the shrill cry that came as she tugged.

Beakers on the lab’s tables cracked and fell apart, his parents’ samples casualties as he was beaten to a pulp by the ghost now hovering over him. He was so tired, begging the cruel universe for some sleep. His head spun from exhaustion and pain as the being let out a terrible laugh.

The chuckle echoed through the lab so similar to the one in his basement; it was no surprise to find they’d worked together at one point. And the man stalking over him, with a sly grin stretching over his features, filling the room with an unnatural light, was talking to him. He realized how similar he was to the man and his stomach churned — once alive, now hardly a human, hunted by the ones he loved. And oh, how much he loved her. The feeling exploded from him, in every word he spoke and action he took.

A perfect family, lead by a perfect couple, so in love and in-sync. All that kept them apart now was a few hours of traffic; soon enough, a hulking wave of orange would join the nauseating teal peering over him. Not long after her husband arrived would he be forced to drop this form before he faded into nothing, and they’d be crushed. By guilt or anger, he didn’t know. He wouldn’t be able to look at them, if he still had enough life left in him to look at all. _He_ had done this to them, made them hurt him until he was once again on death’s door. And the worst part was, for all he should hate her as she stood above him, knife in hand, he couldn’t bring himself to do anything but love her.

“Mom,” he choked out. He felt the air go still around him, her hand full of some sharp tool he didn’t know the name of and perched less than an inch from his skin. The rage of her work being destroyed was gone for a moment, overtaken by shock. “Please make it stop.” But the end would never come.


End file.
